Black, White, and Grey
by Morning Mist
Summary: There are few who are what they appear to be-- sometimes, through no real fault of their own.


Black, White, and Grey  
  
Disclaimer: You know that I don't own Fire Emblem, right? ...Right?! ^_~  
  
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I remember when I was a little girl. The Fang was my world, and Father and my brothers were my everything. They held their weapons high against the corrupt, to defend the right and true and protect the weak. They executed judgment against the unworthy. –Back then, my only fear was that someday, they would find me unworthy, too.  
  
As they did.  
  
Sonia was a part of my world, too... but she was the goddess who never heard my prayers. She never held me... not even once... never kissed me goodnight or read me stories... But still I persisted. I watched her every move, copying her skill with Anima—I raised my strength somewhat that way, but not enough to earn her love.  
  
Now I know that she had no love to give.  
  
So there was the black and the white, with no in between. The Fang was good, the powers of the world were bad, and that was that. I was content—I was foolish.  
  
But then I saw the grey.  
  
He came quietly, unannounced (to me) and unassuming, but I eventually found that Jaffar was one of the elite Four Fangs. Some envied him, most feared him, and all stayed out of his way. But as for me, I didn't know what to think. Not at first. So I started watching him whenever I could—catching an occasional glimpse of sliver blades flashing in the shadows, savoring the look of his cape flowing behind him, longing to have his skill and his recognition. I ended up adoring him from afar.  
  
Soon, my mother used me to deliver the orders for each task to some of the Fangs—including him. The first time I ever spoke to him was in an instance like this. The job was hateful to me—to assassinate a helpless (but politically powerful) old man in his sleep—and I told him so. He only looked at me with hard black eyes and answered, "Tsk."  
  
The man was dead within an hour.  
  
I came to the understanding that he was not directly with the Fang—he was the Angel of Death, the henchman of a mysterious force named Nergal far, far away. But this meant nothing to me, and I continued to ask him questions whenever I could. Like once, I asked whether he liked being an assassin. And he looked at me and said nothing. I asked if he'd rather be something else—with the same response.  
  
So finally, I asked him—you know, being rather desperate for him to talk to me—if he minded always watching people die, to see their blood... I mean, I didn't want him to be evil... he was too much a part of my small life for me to wish that... but I didn't know if he was good, since he wasn't tied directly to the Fang. I didn't know what I wanted him to answer—if I wanted him to answer at all. But at last, at last he spoke to me.  
  
With barely distinguishable movement, he removed a dagger from his cloak and showed it to me. It was obviously well-used—the hilt was worn—but there was neither scratch nor stain on its surface. He explained that there was no satisfaction in killing, just as there was no displeasure. It was a clean duty, a duty to Nergal, and that was that.  
  
I never asked him any more questions while he was in the Fang. I knew he was grey. He could be nothing else.  
  
That happened just a little while before I was given my first job—to assassinate Prince Zephiel. I knew the prince was evil—he must be evil, or they wouldn't have said to assassinate him!—so I went ahead with the job. Mother promised... she promised to love me, and even hug me, if I did it. I was so excited, so eager—the reward was so great. And just as wonderful, the Angel of Death would be at my side for the first time.  
  
But Jaffar was awfully quiet the whole way there. He said nothing... even less nothing than usual. We made our way inside the castle—no guards were in sight, giving me naïve courage. I knew I could do it. It would be easy! And yet, when I heard the boy prince express the same longing that I felt in my heart... to be accepted, to be loved... I couldn't. I just couldn't.  
  
Nevertheless I knew that the Fang would accept no cowards. Mother would accept no tarnish on her reputation. Lloyd and Linus would accept no traitors—they'd told me so before, half-jokingly—and Father would accept no one weak enough to show mercy to a target he deemed guilty.  
  
When Jaffar told me he would accept no blunders, though... that I would die by his exalted blade... that was the hardest decision I ever had to make. But the choice was clear, really. Zephiel was innocent. And I said so.  
  
I closed my eyes, ready to die.  
  
But then I felt something. It was not the swift, chill death of a blade; it was not the coppery taste of blood on my tongue; no, it was not even the feel of tears on my cheeks, though they were there.  
  
It was the warm, gentle feel of his skin against mine.  
  
"Come," he said.  
  
I couldn't see his face; his back was towards me as he pulled me along behind him. But his touch on my wrist was so gentle... as if I were as delicate as my pendant, the one he wears around his neck... so hesitant. So different from Brendan Reed's firm shoulder clasp, or Lloyd patting my head, or Linus ruffling my hair...  
  
He saved me, that night. He saved me from Sonia's malice; he saved me from the consequences of cold-blooded murder; and he saved me from the trap of supposed honor and mistaken justice that my Black Fang fell into.  
  
When the black and the white turned into something entirely different than their exteriors, the grey changed, too. But the grey only dropped its cloak to reveal that which was there all along—the soul and potential of a mortal man. 


End file.
